Quandary

There is always a worry about committing your words and thought to world in this manner. As soon as I publish this on my blog, it is out there forever. Even if I delete on the site the code or whatever it’s called, will still be there and anyone with the appropriate technical skills could retrieve it. This is a bit of a scary thought.

Especially when, as a writer, you are adamant and definite about everything you say. Your opinion at a certain time is etched in cyber stone for all the ages. If you say something, you better damn well mean it because it’s never going away.

Generally this isn’t too much of a problem for me. At this stage in my life I’m comfortable with who I am and what my beliefs are. I’m also quite stubborn so it would take a lot of convincing to get me to change my mind on something. If Jedward bring peace to the Middle East and fill the hole in ozone layer, they will still be a pair of half-witted fucktards as far as I’m concerned.

That doesn’t mean my words don’t sometime come back to bite me on the bum. Having complained about it here, I was surprised to find myself making a very public display of affection on the bus recently. I’ve also spoken with great affection about Fernando Torres and then he left me (well, Liverpool Football Club,) shattering my tiny heart and my belief in true football love.

The worse example of possible literary hypocrisy has yet to happen yet. You might remember a piece I wrote recently about my disdain for silly world record attempts and for people doing things for charity because it’s a bit cool. It managed to offend a couple of people who were none too impressed with my take on things. That is fair enough, everyone is entitled to opinion and I stand by mine.

The problem is, I’ve recently been asked to help out with one of those stupid world record attempts. Part of me thought if I want to have any integrity I need to refuse straight out but the other part of me wanted to do it. I was at a moral fork in the road.

The record attempt is to get the most people writing a short story. I’m not sure exactly how it will work but from what I can gather they want to get about 900 people to write a sentence each. My role will be to help out with the starting of the story and to make sure each participant understands the structure of the tale and how they should proceed. Interesting, yes?

It also will be helping out Fighting Words and another organisation I have done some stuff for before, See Change, which is a mental health awareness programme. So the upside of doing it definitely outweighs the negatives. I may have people calling me a charlatan and a hypocrite but I’m sure I can live with it. I;ll post more details closer to the event and maybe you can join me in my two faced adventures.

As long as I don’t have to grow a stupid moustache.

Media

If you were watching the Six One News back in early June you may have gotten a bit of a surprise and recognised a familiar face. Yes, the beardy visage on your telly was mine and before anyone cracks wise I didn’t commit any crime, I featured on a piece for Fighting Words, the creative writing organisation I volunteer for.

They were up for an award and the news wanted to cover some of the nominees. It was all organised at very short notice, with Fighting Words only finding out the evening before that the cameras would be rolling the next day. They were good enough to give me call as soon as they knew to see would I be happy to appear on screen. Not wanting to make things difficult, I said of course I would, but I have to admit, I did have some reservations.

It wouldn’t be the first time I’d been on RTE programming. Back in the mid nineties I made my television debut on the comedy panel show Don’t Feed the Gondolas. At the time it was a very poor attempt to be Irelands answer to ‘Have I Got News You?’ but in retrospect, with the current plethora of piss poor panel shows, it seems like halcyon programming.

I attended a recording of the show as a member of the audience but when I was approached in the holding area by a man with a clipboard and a huge headset asking if I would like to appear on camera and ask the panellist a question I was very excited and instantly agreed. I signed the appropriate forms and was given a card with the question I was supposed to ask written on it.

Having made a couple of attempts to forge a career as a stand up comedian at this time, I presumed that the show’s producer had recognised something in me, a hilarious quality that would make excellent viewing. This was my opportunity to break out as a star.

I can’t recall now (which is highly appropriate considering the rest of the story) what exactly the question was but it had something to do data protection or freedom of information. I was supposed to put my question to one of my heroes, American comedian Rich Hall and, bizarrely, Nigel Pivaro who played evil Terry Duckworth in Coronation Street. I was instructed to read the question when the host, Sean Moncrieff asked for the first question from the audience.

But reading is for losers. I was superstar in the making, with three open mic spots in various comedy spots around Dublin and the lead role as Elvis in Waterford IT’s production of Bob’s Last Stand under my belt. I’d quickly learn my lines and deliver them with such panache that the head of RTE would have no choice but to immediately sign me up to a million punt contract for my own chat show. Unfortunately, none of this happened.

Perhaps it was the three or four glasses of the revolting but free white wine that was laid on for the audience in the waiting room, perhaps it was nerves addressing my favourite Montana native or maybe it was just the pressure of the cameras focusing on me. My mind went blank. I knew I supposed to say something but nothing was coming out.

The audience, including the friends who I had gone with thought this was hilarious. So did Moncrieff and the other regular panellist Brendan O Connor. Rich Hall sat there with insouciant bemusement that anyone familiar with his work would expect. Nasty Terry Duckworth, however, was lovely about it, told me not to worry he was always messing up his lines on Corrie. The only two people in the studio who didn’t seem to get some sort of amusement from the fluffing of my lines were me and the programme director. In no uncertain terms did he tell that I didn’t have to learn the question and I should just read it.

I could feel everyone looking at me. This was intensified by the fact that the two full size motorised television cameras with men riding on them were pointing right at me. Between this and the fact that it was sweltering under the studio lights, I was feeling faint. All the blood rushing to my cheeks made me feel like the most blushingest man in Ireland. I read the question out meekly and left the comedy to the professionals.

My televisual initiation ruined, I struggled to sleep that night and the next day I was on tenterhooks wondering if they would even show my question when the episode aired that night. I had foolishly told some people that I would be on the telly and it now seemed possible that I would be left on the cutting room floor.

I sat on the chair in my parent’s sitting room as the programme started, the opening credit reigniting the feeling of ignominy I felt when it occurred. I watched with dread, waiting to see what would happen. When it was coming close to the part where the host goes to audience I couldn’t look at the screen.

“And now a question from our audience.”

I couldn’t not look either. There I was, on screen, my face the colour of Wales’s rugby jersey, wearing a hideous Hawaiian shirt (like I said it was the nineties) which seemed to blur and flare against the lights I sat, head bowed, blatantly reading the question from a card in my lap. Relief washed over me like the greatest shower known to man, cleansing away my anxiety. It wasn’t so horrible after all. I’d gotten away with it. Or so I thought.

A couple of months later, on St. Stephens Day, I got a phone call from a friend who thought I’d been hilarious on TV. I had no idea what he was on about having forgotten all about my experience. He told me I’d been on Don’t Feed the Gondolas the night before. Had they repeated the episode I’d been on Christmas Day? How cheap were RTE?

They hadn’t repeated it; I was part of the Christmas special, where they were showing the best bits of the previous series. I was hoped they just showed me in context of a hilarious response that my question got (again I can’t remember what it was) but no. They had decided to show the out take of me getting my question wrong.

According to my friend I swore a bit and you could see my face gradually turn crimson. I looked like I wanted the ground to swallow me up. What he didn’t understand was why after I got it wrong the first time I didn’t just read the question. Why did I keep trying to act natural?

Hang on! I had only made one attempt at ad libbing.

With the help of editing, showing me from different angles, replaying the incident in different sections and cutting back to the host for a witty comment about how incompetent I was before showing the same clip again they made it look like I messed up lines five or six times. I was made to look like a complete buffoon. Over the next couple of weeks I would bump into people I knew who had seen me looking like a jackass on national television on Christmas Day. I was humiliated but because I signed a waiver I didn’t think I could do anything about it.

Having been burned once, I think my trepidations about appearing on the news were understandable. As it turned out though, they were unfounded. Thanks to being forewarned by Orla and Sara in Fighting Words, I made an effort to ensure I looked somewhat presentable, instead of my normal rolling out of bed and running out the door. The camera was a handheld one so it was easier to ignore and the camera man was quite friendly and put me at ease.

I thought I looked well on TV this time. That I was doing something I enjoy and am semi good at helped. I even looked taller than I normally do, (in fairness I was talking to a bunch of nine year olds who were sitting on the floor.) I was only on for thirty seconds or so but I didn’t feel awful about it.

It’s not as if I’m going to run out and start auditioning for reality TV programmes, but I’m really glad I did it and I would probably be ok to make appearance like it again, as long as I had the appropriate time for hair and makeup.

Of course if they do use some outtakes for a Christmas special all they will have is me talking about farting robots and telling a bunch of children that my boss hates them because they are from Navan. And that’s hardly the worst thing to be caught on camera saying. Just ask Richard Keyes.

Generation

When an eight year old boy uses the word ‘cool’ in the context of creating a new superhero, it’s not the easiest thing in the world to establish what exactly he means. According to the Oxford English Dictionary cool has few possible definitions. It’s unlikely Little Timmy means restrained or relaxed pertaining to Jazz (especially modern Jazz.)

So I figured it had to be either of a fairly low temperature or fashionably attractive or impressive. But without having the etymological tome to hand it was kind of hard for me to get one of these explanations across clearly.

The explanation with regards to heat was easy enough to get across; the other left me at a bit of a loss for words. How do you explain ‘cool’ so that it is clear you mean 'of personality'. I wracked my memory banks trying to come up with something that epitomised the hip laidback variant of the word. I came up with the Fonz.

Yes, when trying to define ‘cool ‘I went to the fall back of 1970’s sitcom Happy Days, Arthur Fonzarelli. While I didn’t have the leather jacket and the slick backed hair I did go so far as to stick my thumbs up and go ‘AAayyy.’ Of course to a group of eight and nine year olds I may as well have been talking Portuguese.

They had obviously never heard of the Henry Winkler character that was last relevant in 1982. Even back then he was never really cool. He was only made to look cool because he hung around with people like Richie Cunningham.

I wish I could say this was the first time that one of my pop culture analogies had gone over the heads of the young people I work with in Fighting Words. They would so miss the humour in this blog.

One young boy wanted a synonym for antennae on an insect. He didn’t like 'feelers' as an alternative so I suggested ‘zogabons.’ He thought I was making it up. He had never heard of Zig and Zag. An older girl told me “I was so retro,” because I had a book about Dawson’s Creek in my hand. It was “so 90’s.”

I guess it happens to us all. When we realise we aren’t as ‘cool’ as we used to be. That rock/pop music isn’t supposed to be for us anymore. Despite our efforts to still buy Q and NME magazine, there is the realisation that we have all said at least once “it’s not as good as it was in my day.”

I don’t want to be one of those people who talk about ‘kids of today’ and how ‘in my day’ but I just don’t get kids of today. In my day Beverly Hills 90210 was about Brandon and Brenda Walsh and the Karate Kid was played by Ralph Macchio...Hillary Swank at a push.

That said I’m ok with getting older. Being young was never that great anyway and I reckon I’ll look good with grey hair. I just go with the mid 30’s punches and if I ever get in a situation where I’m a little lost I just ask one question. WWFD? What would Fonzie do?

Chronicle

I’m finding writing a bit of a chore at the moment. There is a lack of complete ideas bouncing around in my beautiful head (yes...beautiful.) I’ve got a couple of strands that if I can pull them together might work but until then, I’ll just have to keep plugging away.

As Pablo Picasso said, “When inspiration comes, I want it to find me working.” How about that for a quote? I don’t just do John Cusack and Father Ted you know.

So with a lack of anything better to talk to you about, I’ll tell you about something I did this week. No, wait...it might be interesting.

On Tuesday, I met up with a new friend (that’s not the interesting part.) Feeling a little unimaginative and not really wanting to ‘just go to the pub’ I charged her with the responsibility of deciding where we would go. This was a mistake as not knowing my destination was incredibly irritating. I like surprises, when I’m doing the surprising. The other way around is just cruel. With a nervous anxiety I boarded the LUAS while she mocked my control freak ways.

I never considered myself a controlling person, but seeing the words on paper does make me seem a bit anal retentive. By the way, isn’t Anal Retentive just the best expression (to say, not to be, obviously.)

Arriving at our stop we disembarked the tram and crossed the Liffey into Temple Bar. Temple Bar isn’t my favourite place in the world so my trepidation was multiplying quicker than Carole Voderman but as we passed some of the more obnoxious bars I started to relax. On seeing an enormous queue of people I realised this was our destination. We were off to Milk and Cookies.

Milk and Cookies is a story telling evening in Exchange Dublin, in Temple Bar. Every second Tuesday of the month an assortment of people converges to share stories they have picked up on their journey through life. Ranging from haunted tales of a teacher’s first job to anecdotes about childhood guilt for cursing out parents, it would be impossible not hear something that didn’t entertain or amuse.

The people who organise it do it for the love of stories rather than money, the lack of a cover charge being proof of that. They also provide tasty baked goods and delicious non alcoholic beverages free of charge. There is a donation jar or merchandise available to buy if you wish to contribute to funding the very worthwhile event.

It was my first time attending and I have to say I loved it. It’s cramped and kind of uncomfortable with not enough seating for the 100 people they let in, but that just added to the sense of unity. Everyone was there to enjoy themselves, support the people who offered to share their story.

The story tellers all had wonderful yarns to weave, some autobiographical and some traditional, some touching and some outright bonkers. Anyone can sign up on the night if they wish to regale a captive audience. Not everyone was a polished performer, but each was treated with the same respect and adoration by the grateful audience.

I will definitely go back. Maybe next time I might share a story. I doubt it would be up to standard of the ones I heard the other night, but I think they would be ok with that.

Coincidentally I met one of the organisers the next day when I was in Galway with Fighting Words. She was volunteering with Cúirt despite having a seriously sprained ankle. In a time when money is tight and entertainment and culture is probably the first thing to go from people’s budgets it’s great to know that good people are trying to do good things.

Disposition

I don’t think I could ever be described as ray of sunshine, although some have tried albeit sarcastically. Over the years I have tended to voice my grievances with the world’s ineptitude and have never been shy about letting people now if I’m upset. Someone once said I could change the mood in a room. They didn’t mean it as a compliment.

People who have only got to know me in the last year or two may not have seen this side of me. I’ve been trying to be a much more positive person. I’m a veritable happy go lucky scamp compared to the pre therapy Jayhaitch.

Its not that things don’t annoy me anymore. They do. Equally if not more so. These days however, I try to let things slide. Look on the bright side.

I do this for a couple of reasons. Obviously the main reason is because all that anger isn’t good for you. Getting stressed by (in a lot of cases, little) things is not good for the mental well being.

When people talk about a metaphysical weight off their shoulders this is what they are talking about. Getting wound up and holding on to pet peeves manifests itself as tension in the neck and shoulders. Let that shit go.

The second reason I’m less inclined to rant is that, in the end, nobody took them (or me) seriously. The first time I went off on a bit of a tirade, people may have been shocked. The second, they might have been taken aback. The third, they nodded knowingly. The tenth, amusement. By the time I got around to my twentieth they were downright ambivalent. Nobody wants that

I’m angry dammit, listen to me, cower at my outrage.

I was as effective as Mr. Furious in Mystery Men. So these days, I count to ten, hold my breath, bite my tongue, turn the other cheek and walk away. I’m also probably a little more considerate of other people’s feelings so I tend to keep in check my disgust if I think it might offend someone.

It wasn’t easy at first. Everything still bothered me. Not rising to people’s consistent idiocy was extremely trying. It was as if the world knew I was trying to self improve and it wanted me to test me. Push me to the limits. Sometimes I would rise to the bait, take a bite out of juicy worm of stupidity.

But as I worked on my smile and nod technique it got easier. My episodes became more sporadic. I developed a certain understanding. I practiced patience. I was down right calm. I have to say it feels good.

People have noticed this change and think it’s for the better. I know at least one person who gets annoyed by my being positive while she chooses to bitch and moan about everything. Some might even suggest if it came to a Zen-off I could probably give the Dali Lama a run for his money…as long as David Bowie was the judge and not Richard Gere.

They would be wrong. I still get pissed off, a lot. I can forgive them for getting it wrong though. I think I thought I didn’t get bothered by stuff any more. I do. I just choose not to voice it. I realised this last week I found myself getting aggravated by a couple on the bus.

It was 8.20 in the morning, the earliest I had be up in at least 6 months. It was raining. The battery on my MP3 player died half way through ‘This Is Where It Gets Good‘ by Eels and I was on my way to Fighting Words. I was going to take the lead with a group of twenty-five 9 year olds for the first time. I was quite nervous and trying to shut the world out.

Then two stops after I got on the bus I was joined by a pair of simpletons who were about to make my morning worse.

In what I imagined was the first flush of a budding romance, holding hands as they came up the stairs. He took the lead looking around for a seat for them both. The bus was about five eights full so there were plenty of seats available; however there was only one seat for two free.

They were both in their mid to late 20’s. He had that really fine strawberry blonde hair that makes it hard to tell if he is actually going bald. His cheeks were red as if in a permanent blush. If you can imagine Niles from Frazier had eaten too many Tayto sandwiches your pretty close.

She was wearing the world’s least sexy outfit of jeans and a GAA jersey, probably his. I think it was a club jersey but I really couldn’t say.

They sat down in front of me, he offered her the window seat but she declined so he sat on the inside. She sat beside her man. Snuggling into him, she rests her head on his shoulder. He put his arm around her along the back of the seat, his elbow dangling over onto my side.

This is where I began to get irked. That was my space. He was invading my personal bubble. I paid one Euro sixty for this journey I want the air at least till the distance of the seat in front of me and here was this interloper trying to deny me.

Eventually he moved it. My tension abated briefly. Very briefly. They then began what can only be described as snogging. The kind of kissing 14 year olds do outside the local ice rink or bowling alley. Kissing for kissing sake. Kissing because they were boyfriend and girlfriend. The kind of kissing that makes me sick.

I have no real issue with (moderate) displays of public affection as such. But it was too early in the morning for that shit. They seemed to be on there way to work so it’s not as if the kissing was going to lead anywhere. And before anyone (female) says just because you kiss doesn’t mean you are going to have sex here is a news flash. Yes it does. We only do the kissing ladies, because we want the sex…if not immediately, later. We can play the long game.

In the past I would have coughed in a very unsubtle manner and told them to get a room. This time I didn’t. I went into my tongue biting routine but I was really aware that they were annoying me. I counted to ten. The anger built. I tried to think happy thoughts but they two slurping morons in front of me were very off putting.

Just as I was about to explode and slap them both in the back of the head they had a lucky escape. She stood up and said ‘This is my stop, I love you and can’t wait to see you later’ and kissed him goodbye. And that was it. My rage subsided and once the taste of sick at her parting comment left my mouth it was all good again.

As I finished my journey I was very aware of how much they annoyed me. And I was very aware how I had been appearing to not get annoyed. Little things like that didn’t bother me anymore did they? I guess they do. I decided that this re discovery needed some analysis. I was going to keep a record of all the little things that annoyed me for a week.

I didn’t have long to wait till I found items number two and 3 on the list. After my session in Fighting Words I went to the cinema. It’s a usual Tuesday afternoon thing for me to do. I was sitting waiting for Scott Pilgrim to start (still very enjoyable on second viewing) and the adverts had yet to begin even.

Cineworld at this stage normally pipes in movie related music over the P.A. The boss must have been off on this day and a member of staff hijacked the music system and decided we all needed to hear the new album by Diana Vickers.

For those of you lucky enough not to know who Ms. Vickers is, she is a reject from X factor. She sings with such an effected voice that she sounds like a cross between Kate Bush having an orgasm and Delores O Riordan from the Cranberries having an asthma attack. She has ‘distanced’ herself from her Xfactor days in an attempt to be taken ‘seriously’ as an ‘artist.’ One of her ‘lyrics’ is about how she hates ‘rich kids’ who shop in ‘charity’ shops.

How many sarcastic inverted commas is that? You get my point.

Number 3 on the list was the trailer for the movie Vampires Suck. A ‘comedy’ lampoon (ok, no more ironic ‘air fingers‘) of the Twilight. Bereft of any artistic merit, a cheap cash in on the movie franchise that already has no soul. It happens to have been hugely successful in the United States despite terrible reviews and coming from the same stable as Another Teen Movie, Scary Movie, Meet the Spartans and others of its ilk How could anyone not be annoyed?

I was going to put the guy behind who laughed at the trailer for this abomination of cinema on the list but when the movie was over and the lights came on I saw he was a man in his 40’s dressed in the full Liverpool away kit, socks and all. So I’ll let that slide.

The rest of the list was made up in part of the following things-

• Last minute cancellations
• 
  
• People not leaving a voice message (especially when they ring from a private number)
• 
  
• Bertie Ahern in that stupid ad. (Just Bertie Ahern in fairness)
• 
  
• Wanting to put something on my list but then realising I’m blowing things out of proportion
• 
  
• Passive Aggressive Behaviour. (You can slam as many things as you like but I won’t know what’s upsetting you unless you tell me.)
• 
  
• Losing the other stuff on my list of annoyance because I was recording them on my phone and I lost my phone.
• 
  
• Losing my phone.

So as you can see. I am still prone to the bout of vitriol. I think that’s natural though. It isn’t natural to keep it all in. Get annoyed, let it out and let it go. I will still try and keep a positive spin on things but occasionally I will think about the things that annoy me and try and let them out.

If only I had some sort of public forum where I could do that without shouting at people.

Altruism

As part of a much improved week, last week I had a meeting. I think in my head I thought of it as interview. I researched. I prepared. I thought about what I should wear. I even got a haircut. When I get there it was definitely not an interview. It was a very friendly chat about my wanting to do some volunteer work.

I was meeting with a lovely woman called Jean who is the Volunteer coordinator for a group called Fighting Words. It was founded by Roddy Doyle and is a centre which encourages kids to explore creative writing as a means of expressing themselves and finding their individuality. As I said a couple of weeks ago writing is something which I felt helped me find my own voice when I was younger so this seemed like a good opportunity to give some of that back. It also sounds like a lot of fun.

The way it works is that classes of kids come in and they workshop the first part of a story. They then go off and individually write an ending for that story. At the end of the session they are presented with a book of their story, including illustrations drawn by artists and with their photo on the back. Like a real book.

Sounds pretty cool to me. So I volunteered to help out. I’m not sure exactly what I’ll be doing just yet. Probably just helping with spelling or something. The way I look at it, I’ve got plenty of time on my hand and if there is some way I can help some one else find a passion for writing then I’m there. I forgot mine for long enough that I feel I owe it something.

This is the latest of my volunteering efforts. For someone who has over the years tended to be a bit self centred and dismissive of others good deeds it’s a bit of a change. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not volunteering because I’m a wonderful human being. I have time on my hands and get easily bored. Its like Joey in Friends (or was it Immanuel Kant) said. There is no such thing as a truly selfless act.

I recently volunteered to help out at the Jameson Dublin Film Festival. When I went to meet with them it was a very different experience to my Fighting Words meeting. It was a Saturday morning in the Savoy Cinema. There was between 15 and 20 people there for the same meeting. Everyone standing around the foyer of the cinema, no one really sure what was going on. Was this the right place to be? It was a very strange experience. Looking around trying to make some kind of connection with someone who knew what was happening.

It was a very timid crowd. Maybe it was because of the type of event it was? It attracted shy movie geeks who didn’t really know how to interact with strangers? I was desperate to just go up and start chatting to people. I just wanted to shout out “Talk to me, I’m funny.” But it looked like I might have scared them.

When finally we were shepherded into screen 2 to meet the volunteer co-ordinator the isolation continued as everyone point blank refused to sit beside anyone else. A regulation gap of one empty seat between each person appeared. I couldn’t do it. It just seemed too sad. So ignoring the protocol set out by my fellow free time givers I sat down beside the person who had gone ahead of me. She looked at me like I had two heads. I smiled and made some remark. Some quip that in my head sounded like a hilarious ice breaker. Judging by the look on her face it made me sound like a sex offender.

I looked to my right to see if anyone had followed my lead and decided that we were, in fact, all going to be working together and that there was no need to be shy. They hadn’t. In fact they too seemed to take my boldness as some sort of perversion and doubled the normal space that should be between us.

As I sat through the coordinators pompous and bloated chat about how he does this for the festival and the festival is great because he works for it and the festival changed cinema in Ireland because he has been volunteering for 8 years I started to question my motives. Then the supercilious clown started to evangelize Korean cinema and derided anyone who was going to go see Shutter Island during the festival.

I knew I only wanted to go see a few free movies. Between already being a pariah with co-volunteers and the coordinator being a complete tool I was pretty sure that this endeavour wasn’t for me. Normally I wouldn’t like to waste anyone’s time. But for this guy I’d make an exception.

As it turns out, my kind offer to help out was declined (I just sound bitter now.) Apparently, in what I guess is a sign of the times, they had over 400 applications for just under 200 positions. With unemployment on the rise, people have more time on their hands. And who wouldn’t want a free ticket to see Alice in Wonderland 3-D. (Me actually, I hate Tim Burton.)

Of course my recent dalliances with altruism started in October. I was in need of a holiday after escaping the evil clutches of Fraud Analysis. Money was tight so I needed to find something that would be cheap and interesting. So in situations like that I always resort to my friend and yours. Google. I entered the terms “volunteering” and “Europe” it brought be back a list of things and one of the options on that list was Pueblo Ingles.

Pueblo Ingles (or English Village to give it its literal translation) is a programme run in various locations around Spain, where Spanish people can go to improve their English. The programme is an intense experience for them as they are totally immersed for 8 days in the English language. From the moment they arrive for breakfast at 9 til bed time they have to speak English. The volunteers are all native English speakers and the only real skill they need is to be able to talk…a lot.

For me it was an amazing experience. Firstly the location was amazing. In a beautiful valley surrounded on all sides by mountains. It made getting mobile phone coverage impossible, which was fantastic. It completely took you out of the real world and there was only you and your Pueblo Ingles compatriots for the week.

The people I met were amazing. The Spanish people were so open and warm. For them it seemed a big deal that people would come and help them with their English without any monetary reward. They were very willing to talk about themselves and their culture in a foreign language. It must have been incredibly difficult for them.

They ‘Anglos’ or English speakers were fantastic too. There seemed to be a real sense of appreciation for the opportunity we had. Everyone made the utmost effort to helpful with the Spanish. It was also an opportunity for me to meet and chat to some people who I wouldn’t necessarily allow myself to get to know.

While it all sounds lovely it wasn’t all chats and tea. By the end of the week I found myself really tired of the sound of my own voice. As someone who enjoys his own company and is quite happy to spend hours (days sometimes) not talking to anyone it was hard to give up that liberty. Literally from dawn to dusk you are chatting and being social. Sometimes its hard to listen to someone who you know understands but can’t put their thoughts into words.

But its worth it. It is an amazing experience. One I hope to repeat again in May. I really can’t wait. I get to sample again the Spanish lifestyle which I’m much more suited to (siestas…greatest invention ever) It gives me a chance to meet and make new friends. And hopefully I will see some of my friends from my previous programme.

There really is a lot to be said for volunteering. It is a great way to kill time. You sometimes get free stuff (food, t-shirts). You feel all warm and fuzzy inside. You get to meet some good people.

Oh and other people get some benefit too. What’s not to like?

For those of you wondering about my to do list from last week I’m proud to report that I did all bar one of the items on the list. I wrote to the author Mike Gayle and he wrote back to me. He confirmed what I suspected from his book and website and is a really cool bloke. He also looked at my blog…which made me feel all warm and fuzzy at first. Then disappointed because it was my negative effort. Oh well. Onwards and upwards. I’m going to email some more authors and see if I can’t get them to have a look…sure why not. Now…who’s first?